


In The End, They All Want The Confetti (the Tomorrow When We Say Goodbye remix)

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: She's not just a successor. Not just a friend. She'sKate, no other word for it, but what that means changes over time.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Kate Bishop
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32
Collections: be_compromised Remix Exchange 2020





	In The End, They All Want The Confetti (the Tomorrow When We Say Goodbye remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlphaFlyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In The End, They All Want The Confetti (Or: Five Things Kate Learns About Clint, And The Time She Puts That Knowledge To Good Use)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9096487) by [AlphaFlyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer). 



> You see, I did a little dance when I got you as a remixee and I COULD NOT RESIST picking some Hawkeye Squared. ;)
> 
> Beta-read by scribblemyname, thank you very much! All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "The World I Used To Know" by Ryan Star.

Despite his frequent claims to the contrary, Clint really isn't the lone gunman type. Never was. First there was Barney, then Natasha, then the Avengers, and he really doesn't know why he bothers to keep up the pretense. His recent stint as Ronin was necessary but awful for that very reason. 

And somehow, after returning to the land of the living, he somehow ended up with a... Kate. 

Not just a successor. Not just a friend. Definitely not more because she's what, like, seventeen at this point and he's not a monster. Although she's interested, he knows, or at least attracted to him in some way or other – he's seen that _look_ on too many women not to recognize the appraisal, the weighed possibilities. Problem is, she's not quite a woman yet. Maybe he'll think about this differently in a few years time. Or maybe she'll have moved on by then, found someone else, someone better, someone worthier. And when that happens, he can give that person a mighty shovel talk and plot their demise with her if they're ever anything less than excellent to her. 

That, right there, is the scary part, by the way, Clint contemplates as he walks over to the couch, two cups of coffee in hand, filled to the brim; one wrong step and he'll have scalding how liquid sloshing onto his hand. He somehow convinced himself that she's here to stay. That, no matter what happens or whether or not their relationship might change in the future, she'll always be around, always be his _Kate_. It's setting himself up for heartbreak. 

She makes grabby hands over the edge of the couch without turning her head, her attention still on the shitty TV movie they've settled for tonight, and he shakes his head to interrupt that maudlin train of thought. 

No matter. She's here right now, and he never spent too much time and energy on trying to predict the future anyway. 

***

The new apartment comes with an extra room that others might set aside for kids or as an office or some shit, but that Clint deemed perfect for a makeshift shooting range. A narrow room, but spanning the entire length of the apartment to one side, so all he had to do was reinforce the wall that holds the targets so that those arrows don't accidentally pierce, like, one of his tenant's wardrobe, and they were a go for target practice at home. 

There it is again. _They. The Hawkeyes_. Plural. 

And to her credit, she hasn't left yet. If anything, she spends more time with him since the move. Lucky seems to be a bit of a draw, too, or at least a convenient additional excuse. 

“Gotta make sure you treat him right,” she says again right now, curled into his side, scritching the patchy fur on Lucky's head in that way she has that causes him to half-close his eyes and emit a sound not all too far removed from a purring cat. He never makes that sound for Clint, the little traitor. 

Clint feigns an offended gasp. “I'm an adult, you know. I'm fully capable of taking care of a pet.” 

She cocks her head to the side and lifts an eyebrow. “You're barely capable of taking care of yourself,” she points out, then her expression lightens up into a teasing grin. “Elder Hawkeye. 

He glares at her, even though he doesn't disapprove of the nickname quite as much as he pretends he does; he suspects it's on par with the token fuss she still makes whenever he calls her _Katie_. 

Clint's brain is rattling with an attempt to come up with a witty rejoinder, but she yawns, entire body first stiffening and the relaxing against him, and he instead settles for putting an arm around her and pulling her closer. She goes with it, and there he sits, Kate snuggled up into the crook of his arm, Lucky laid out across his legs, happy and relaxed and, as it turns out, way too reckless with his affections yet again. 

***

The apartment seems cold and empty without the two of them in it. Clint gets it, he really does; he's hardly been able to stand being around himself, lately, and part of him is glad the both of them seized the chance to hit the row, get some hundred miles between him and them. Kate will take good care of the dog; she's done most of that in the last couple weeks, anyway, while Clint drowned in self-pity – or attempted to drown said self-pity, same difference. 

He's in the shooting range, loosing arrow after arrow without paying too much attention on where they land. The muscles in his upper arms have started to burn with the endless repeats. He can't hear the arrows hit the target and it drives him insane, but he can't seem to stop. This is all he's got left. 

This is all he ever had. 

Kate is in SoCal and he misses her so much it equals a physical hurt, somewhere near his heart. He's still not entirely sure what kind of love this is – was, quite probably, if she's truly smarter than him she'll never come back – and he doesn't dare to try and figure it out. 

He nocks another arrow and raises it a bit too high on purpose, in a vain hope that he might hear the swish of the arrow let loose that way, and throws the entire bow down the range when that isn't the case. 

It doesn't matter whether he loves her or is _in love_ with her. It matters even less if she returns his feelings either way. In this state, he doesn't want her to come back. He doesn't quite deserve her even at his best, and like this, he doesn't deserve her at all. 

***

He can't stop looking at her. Kate is back and she's saving his hide and she looks amazing doing so, determined and full of grace and rightful anger and determination, and Clint is spellbound. He tells himself it's relief and surprise, nothing more, but he's always been a shit liar. 

She's radiant. He loves her. He's _in love with her_. Those are simple facts. 

They've got their hands full, of course, with saving the building, and Clint is enough of a professional to prioritize a rescue over trying to sort out his love life, and so he doesn't allow himself to dwell on that realization until after they've won. 

He's been trying to distract himself – and thus conveniently avoid staring at her – by vain attempts at a cleanup in his apartment, but, lacking even the most basic cleaning equipment such as a broom or a dustpan, he's switched gears to scouring what's left of his kitchen for mugs. The result is disheartening. Plenty of porcelain shards, but no surviving mugs. 

“No mugs left,” he says. “What kind of thugs would break people’s mugs?” He hesitates for a second. "Hey, that sounds like something out of Dr. Seuss: What kind of thugs would break people's..."

“I’ll go get some new ones,” Kate interrupts, with suspicious enthusiasm, already heading towards the door the moment she's finished that sentence, like someone who's hurrying to take up a task at a family gathering that frees them from having to listen to one more word of their relatives comparing their houses, yards, and their children academic achievements. 

What's left of the door falls shut behind her, and Clint stares at splintered wood, dumbfounded, until he hears a commotion from the couch. Ah, Lucky. She didn't take Lucky this time. 

Then it occurs to him that the kitchen floor is still covered in debris, including various broken things with sharp edges, and he jumps into action, ushering Lucky back onto the couch and telling him to _stay, dammit, if you know what's good for you then you'll obey just this once_. He hurries out the apartment and down the hall, knocking on the first door he encounters. 

Simone opens, looking him up and down with a sigh. “Wow,” she starts, direct as usual. “You look like shit.” 

“Do you have a broom I can borrow?” he says, and, “It's for the dog.” 

Simone frowns at him, then holds up a hand, and returns moments later with aforementioned broom. He reaches for it, but she takes a step back. “That's a loan, not a gift. You better get it back to me in one piece.” 

Clint nods with all the enthusiasm he can muster and grabs the broom, yelling a _thank you_ over his shoulder, and hurries back down the hallway to his own apartment. He works like a man possessed; Kate might come back or she might not, but she left the dog with him and that means something. He can't have her show back up and encounter Lucky with bandaged up paws because Clint was careless. That's just... he won't let that happen. 

He manages to sweep all the debris in the kitchen into a giant pile, and he's just started to try and maneuver it all into a large black garbage bag, with a piece of cardboard for a dustpan because of course he forgot to ask Simone for _that_ and he's too embarrassed to go back and ask. 

Lucky yaps and jumps off the couch, and when Clint turns, there's Kate. She's back. She actually came back for him _again_ , and she's holding to cellophane-covered somethings. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” Clint blurts out. 

Kate's expression turns haunted, pained, for just a moment. “Idiot,” she says, and for once he's not sure whether that's directed at him or at herself. They stand there and stare at each other for a long moment, until Kate recovers first. “Here, have some decent coffee, and mugs. Your excuse for drinking from the pot is at an end.” 

Confetti spills onto the ground when she rips the cellophane open, and she mumbles something about celebration and being alive and his idiocy around women, but what's more important is that she's taking a step towards him with each part of that tirade, and then suddenly she falls silent and she's _so close _and her arms are around his neck and she's pulling him down to her height.__

__She kisses him, and how's that for a happy ending?_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [dreamwidth](https://geckoholic.dreamwidth.org/), [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


End file.
